11 years: Part 3

Next morning Brandon could not stay in his body. He rushed towards Karen's house which was at the foothills nearby. But she wasnt there. He knew where to find her. Karen was on the old concrete court behind the café, sleeves pushed up, hair tied loosely, the ball moving between her hands as if it understood her mood. She was not playing to win. She was playing to empty herself. The thud of the ball against the ground steadied her breath. Brandon stood watching for a moment, unsure if he was allowed to enter this version of her. Then he stepped forward, caught the ball mid bounce, and smiled with a shyness that surprised them both. They played without rules. A few shots, a few misses. At one point he moved too close, reaching for the ball, his arm brushing her waist. Karen froze for half a second, then laughed, the sound soft and unguarded. She spun away, skirt swaying, aware of her body in a way that was new and oddly innocent. His eyes followed her movement, not hungry, just present. When she tried to shoot, he stood behind her, correcting her posture without touching at first. Then, almost apologetically, his hands rested at her elbows. The contact was brief, careful, but something warm passed between them. She felt it settle low in her body, not urgent, not demanding, just awake. They stopped playing before either of them knew who had won. They sat on the steps with two coffees between them, knees almost touching. The conversation drifted, as it always did, toward books, toward the places where language breaks under the weight of longing. Kafka came up naturally. She spoke about his letters, the ache of wanting connection while fearing it. Brandon listened, then said quietly that Kafka wrote as if love was a door he could see but never fully enter. Karen looked at him then, really looked, and realised he was not speaking about Kafka alone. The silence between them grew thick, but not uncomfortable. Karen closed her notebook. “I come here when I want to disappear properly.” He stood close, then paused. “Before I touch you… I need you to know. This isn’t desire that wants to take.” She looked up. “Then what is it?” “Something older,” he said. “The need to become complete without crossing you.” “Then hold me,” she whispered. “Like that.” His arms came around her slowly. Karen exhaled. “This feels… whole.” “That’s because I’m not trying to own you.” She smiled against his chest. “Kafka would call this hunger without cruelty. Nabokov would forgive the precision.” Before leaving, she slipped a folded page into his pocket. “What did you write?” he asked. “Nothing finished,” she said. “Read it when you’re ready.” Later, alone, he opened it. One line only. This touch was a beginning disguised as restraint.

11 Years -Part 2. continued

Brandon returned and this time he did not stand. He sat beside her, close enough that the warmth of him changed the air. From beneath the counter he brought a bundle of papers, uneven, some folded, some stained with old coffee rings.

He placed them between them like an offering to Karen almost shy.

“These are not finished,” he said. “They never learned how to behave.” Karen smiled once, then began. She read slowly. Each page seemed to breathe. The writing was raw, unguarded, sometimes clumsy, sometimes exact in a way that made her chest ache. There were mothers who vanished without dying. Fathers who stayed but never arrived. Men who stood at windows, wanting and afraid of what wanting might cost. She held a tissue in her left hand, careful, so careful, that her tears would fall only onto paper meant for them. Not his. As she read, her body moved through quiet states. Sadness came first, low and familiar. Then excitement, the thrill of being trusted with something unfinished. Awe followed, surprising her with its gentleness. Beneath it all lived a soft sensual awareness. Not sharp. Not urgent. Just present. The sense of being near a living nerve. Brandon brought another cup of coffee without speaking. As he set it down, his fingers brushed her hair behind her ear. The gesture was small, almost absent minded, yet it stayed. Karen did not look up. Halfway through, she felt him watching her cry. When she glanced sideways, his eyes were wet too. He looked startled by himself, like someone caught speaking aloud in an empty room.

“Don’t hug me,” she said quietly. “Don’t make it cliché.”

He laughed, a sound that broke cleanly through the heaviness.

“To hug you,” he said, “I would have to purify every ounce of sin I have committed.”

Karen leaned closer. Not touching. Just closer. “Your sins,” she said, “are what made you reach where you are standing today. In front of me.” Something moved through him then. Not tenderness alone. Something older. His breath deepened. His body responded before his mind could arrange permission. Desire rose, primal and vivid, asking for action. He did nothing. He stayed. He breathed. Karen placed the last page down. “I have to leave now.” She stood. He did not stop her. That night, after the café closed and the snow had softened into silence, Brandon sat alone and wrote a letter to his father. He did not explain. He did not accuse. He wrote about a woman who read his words as if they were alive. About standing in front of someone without armor. About the strange holiness of restraint. He did not sign the letter. Outside, the city slept, unaware of what had almost been touched. Part-1: http://romshiwonder.blogspot.com/2026/01/11-years.html

11 years

Karen had learned, over time, the particular weight of unspoken things. They did not crush her. They rested on her, like a shawl worn in all seasons. For eleven years she had lived among half sentences and careful pauses. People spoke around her, not to her. They arrived with laughter, with half-baked attachments, with stories sharpened for telling. They left with equal softness. No one said the words that might have gathered her life into rest. Silence, then, became an object she tended. She carried it as one carries a sealed letter, turning it over now and then, tracing its edges, fearing what the opening might demand. She worked in a small archive near the river, where papers slept and names faded gently into time. In the evenings she attended a book reading workshop held above a closed cinema. The stairs creaked. The lights flickered. Chairs were arranged in a circle, not quite touching. People came to read, but more to be heard.

It was there that Brandon appeared, though he did not arrive in the way people usually arrive.

He did not announce himself with stories or glances. He sat, already present, as if he had been waiting for the room to catch up with him. He was large, not in size alone but in stillness.

His presence felt grounded, He would not flinch by any woman's beauty, he was so full and rooted inward without any boyish whim.

Karen shuddered. Brandon was looking at her face. Not her hands, not the page, not the space around her. Her face, as though he had arrived somewhere important and intended to remain.

A man like Brandon who seldom look at pretty women was gazing Karen with full wholesom gaze.

There was no rush in his gaze. It reminded her of reading Kafka slowly, or Nabokov with care, aware that speed would flatten what mattered most. After the reading, people gathered their coats. Chairs scraped. Mrs Hall, who always wore red scarves, complained about the cold. Jonah waved and disappeared down the stairs. Brandon approached Karen with a folded note. He did not speak. He did not watch her open it. He placed it in her hand and turned away, as though the act itself was complete. At home, Karen sat by the window where the city hummed softly below. She unfolded the paper. The words were few. At the end it said, Karen I love you. The sentence frightened her because of its lightness. It did not ask. It did not explain. It rested on the page without effort. She felt the old questions rise at once. How long. Why now. When will you leave. They shaped themselves easily, practiced from years of use. Then she recognized them as her own wound, speaking ahead of time, eager to protect itself. She slept badly. In morning there was snow all around. Karen walked anyway. She knew where Brandon’s café was, though she had never been inside. It was small, set back from the road, its windows pressed warm with light. Inside, the smell of coffee held the air steady. Brandon was behind the bar, sleeves rolled, hands sure. Karen did not sit. She handed him her note. He read it once. Then again. It said, If you promise that you will write everyday, I am going to stay with you forever.

His hands trembled before his face changed. Then his shoulders softened, as though something he had been holding finally set him down. Tears came without resistance. He took her hands, rubbing warmth back into them, and placed a cup of coffee between her fingers.

“I will be back,” he said quietly. “With a book we should read together.” “Only if you promise to read it out loud while I rest,” she replied. He did not ask what she meant. Understanding moved through him like recognition rather than surprise. He nodded once and disappeared through the back door into the snow. Karen remained where she was. The woman at the counter glanced at her, then away. The older man turned his paper the right way up. Outside, the snow continued its patient erasure. Karen held the cup, the heat, and the knowledge that some promises do not need explanation. They wait, like sealed letters, until someone is ready to listen. Behind the café, unseen, a door closed softly. Or perhaps it did not close at all.

A Spiritual Encounter with My cat Sophie

On a lazy afternoon, I decided to delve into the mystical world of my feline companion, Sophie. With my mind in a meditative state, I approached her energy body to connect with her higher self. To my surprise, Sophie revealed her impressive array of virtues and qualities – confidence, self-assurance, authenticity, and self-reliance, to name a few. I asked her where she goes when she sleeps. She agreed to show me after a few requests. Sophie took me to another dimension, a world teeming with cats of every breed, size, color, and quality imaginable. The felines were busy meowing, running, flying, walking, and sliding on rainbow-colored galactic pathways, chasing after butterflies made of light while sporting gowns and crowns that changed colors at their whim. I was sure that I was travelling into another dimension and then Sophie, with her fur glowing in different hues, walked with a princessly gait as she led me to a magnificent gate with her name ‘SOPHIE’ inscribed on it. She said, “if you open this gate, you would enter another dimension where you will meet all the cats who have similar qualities, psychic abilities, physical and spiritual features just like me. “ “But I am interested only in you. Why would I want to enter such another dimension? You and this cat dimension are enough for me as if now.” She said, “Yeah, you are right. It may exhaust your tiny human brain.” Such audacity is acceptable only if coming from a cat. “So every cat can have its own dimension ?” Sophie said, “Everything you can think of is possible. “ “So there are trillions and trillions of dimensions! I would give it a pass then.” I looked at Sophie, who was just enjoying her own higher self, her state full of limitless colours, vibrancy, lights, abilities in its full spectrum. I asked her, “ Don't you ever think who are you, who created you in these different dimensions, where you exist?” She looked puzzled at my question, then she said, “ I guess I want to know, but I am satisfied being who I am.” “Are you aware that every being in the universe evolves and makes progress. If you want, can you remember your own progress?” Sophie looked thoughtful now and closed her eyes as if remembering many of her own past lives. She opened her eyes and said, “I could remember many of my past lives. I could see myself evolving from one species to another species. It is mesmerising to see that I am not only a cat but a consciousness which has been evolving in different forms and perhaps I am still evolving.” “Would you like to know your own pure essence beyond being a cat or any other form?” “Yes!” Her eyes shined. Then she again closed her eyes and took a long breath. To my surprise, I saw a young yogi, descending down from the galaxies clad in white clothes coming towards us as Sophie was still in a meditative state, he put her hand on Sophie‘s head, and then looked at me and smiled. He said to Sophie, “There is every possibility you can get self-realisation “ I could not help myself and interrupted. “But they say that animals cannot get enlightened.” The young Yogi smiled. “It is not true. Even a tree can get enlightenment by the grace of an enlightened guru or whenever anyone decides to turn inwards and becomes one with the eternal light that resides within. When form merges into formless, an animal seizes to exist, a tree seizes to exist, a human being ceases to exist. Then only the truth remains- that is enlightenment and human beings do not have a copyright on it.” Something shook in me and I came back to my three-dimensional reality instantly. I opened my eyes and saw Sophie sitting beneath my laptop table with her closed eyes, in her deep Samadhi state. The great nature writer Henry Beston wrote in 1928 as he contemplated the synergy of animals with the universe said, “We need another and a wiser and perhaps a more mystical concept of animals. In a world older and more complete than ours they move finished and complete, gifted with extensions of the senses we have lost or never attained, living by voices we shall never hear." According to Buddhist tradition, the Buddha's horse, named Kanthaka, achieved enlightenment after the Buddha's death. It is said that Kanthaka was so devoted to the Buddha that he died of grief after his passing and was reborn as a human in a future life. Also the story of Hachiko is a well-known and beloved tale in Japan of early 20th century. Hachiko was a Japanese Akita dog who became famous for his loyalty to his owner and his daily routine of waiting for him at the train station, even after his owner had died. Many people believe that Hachiko achieved a level of spiritual enlightenment through his unconditional love and devotion. Seeking is a cosmic breath in every being; without the faculty of self-reflection, self-inquiry and self-knowing, it remains beautifully covered with self-ignorance but sometimes by a rub with a profound experience it can be awakened.

Everyone is a seeker

A dolphin in the ocean, a raven on the tall tree, a child sitting on the doorstep, a mother struggling with life, a father coping with the harshness of this planet, a Sadhu sitting in a cave, a doctor performing a surgery, a soldier marching on the ground, a player honing his skills-all of them breathing at the same time. All of them are searching either for survival or happiness or contentment or the truth. Seeking for something more- is that one thread that connects us all. Research for self discovery is a journey that can take us down many different parts, some of which may ultimately proved to be dead ends. We become consumed with the pursuit of external validation and lose sight of our own true selves. Yet human beings are pretty intelligent creatures. You may find references of people who gave up on the world and turned to the journey of self-discovery. But you may hardly find references of people who gave up on the journey of self-realization and started pursuing the word again. Perhaps once you have glimpsed the vastness of inner landscapes and green Meadows of truth, you may lose interest in pebbles and suffocating streets of illusion. It seems inconceivable-that everything we know, everything we love, every thing that even was and will be, failed to provide us unshakeable peace and unwavering happiness. Down here on earth, the way we have evolved from being various species, managing billions of thoughts and ignoring our own ungratefulness for our miraculous brains- our capacity for seeking arises. Seeking must have fallen on an ancient atom when it was separated from its source. The seeking of atoms swirled, flowed outside and molecules. The molecule could not handle the sharp seeking and burst into liquids, gases or solids. The pain of separation and the quest for returning home must have created our entire universe. Our seeking is evident, eternal, omnipotent , omnipresent and infinitely powerful. hindi translation

The World of Now ( a message from Veronica)

"The reality earth plane on which you currently exist is a result of the energy of your participation. In the time line each generation has left an imprint of positive + negative that has tipped quite vigorously into the negative. This is a result of being unconsciously without the influence of the soul. Most will reply to this vehemently that they have participated religiously within the parameters of their linear consciousness... the spiritual influences being regulated by a confined perspective that places all spiritual power + creation to an outside source.



Our position is that by bringing the soulful energy into the person [it] can alter the imbalance that is occurring. Generations of incarnated souls have been aligned to place the power of thought outside of themselves. The idea of a god being the omnipotent energy that decides the path of the physical beings that worship him. Now that the planet's energy is dangerously askew we implore all souls incarnate to bring that omnipotent energy where it belongs, to the internal thought process by which all of you create reality (i.e. free will). Your current linear is salvageable, however, the declaration of concentrated thought must be reclaimed so that the balance of energy can be regained. Free will is the claiming of the thought process that saves... so to speak... everything. Do not feel the linear influence - "Oh I am but one." All of you come from unique entity sources designed to bring a balance of perspective to your linear creation. Participate energetically. Your connection to others may + will influence the mass consciousness creation that has gone awry. Seize each day and bring your energy to it. It will make a difference. Think. Be persistent. Be linear while expressing your eternal soul. It is why you are here. Become the energy of your soul and all will be well. What if you were the one soul needed to tip the balance to the more positive participation? --VERONICA

Inner Whispers

A Message From VERONICA

The Oasis of Your Soul

"Traveling through the physical environment there are many twists and turns that can lead to many destinations. Intersections with others can lead one to moments where one feels lost and desolate, a rather desert of reality.

In times of lack the only recourse is to return to the energy of who you are, which is the soul.

Within this infinite energy the elixir of life resides... its nurturing moment providing an opportunity to replenish that which seems to be taken from you.

Feel the cooling properties that quench the thirst for peace. A tranquil breath of fresh air that can only be inhaled by the soul.

All of it can translate to your physical reality if you let it.

We caution that immediate relief may take some time as it trickles back to you. However, never doubt that the oasis of the soul in a desert environment is never far off. It is a real moment not a mirage. Believe in the solid energy as it releases all the discomfort.

It is your choice so make it.

The oasis is inviting and it is real.

Decide to be there or not. A moment of respite before returning is well needed. The journey can indeed be treacherous, but if one resides soulfully in the oasis the journey can be easier."

--VERONICA